Before I Lose My Nerve
by All-Day-Anime
Summary: "You've played with me for years, Sherlock Holmes. Why did I ever allow you to push me around?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, refusing to answer the drunken doctor as she continued her rampage. Sherlolly Rated T for alcohol use, language and reference of sex. Originally "You're My Comfort"


_**This is my first Sherlock story on here. I am thinking of adding one with multiple chapters (not this story, but of after the Season 2 Finale). I am a true Sherlolly fan and I believe that they are absolutly perfect for each other. This is rated T for some language (near middle and end) and a bit of sexual content (not much).**_

_**Also (these are thoughts/narrations/a bit of comic relief) just so you aren't confused.  
**_

Molly walked around the morgue of St. Bart's Hospital, bored with the lack of cadavers to enter the hospital in the last few days. It would be soon, but not soon enough, before she was given another body to examine and do paperwork on. But, until that time came, Molly Hooper sat down in her chair and picked up her newly bought novel (some romance novel that had been thrust into her hands by her mother) and flipped to the last page she was at, not far into the book at all. It wasn't interesting as much as it was dull and uneventful.

It didn't take long before she heard the door slam open, footsteps coming with long strides from the sound. And then there was another that were moving faster, but trying to keep up with the other, as if they had shorter legs or perhaps something wrong with one of their own. The one with longer strides walked with quick steps, knowing exactly where he wanted and needed to be. It had to be-

"Molly, I texted you an hour ago and you didn't respond. Has there been any new bodies?"

She looked up at Sherlock Holmes, followed closely by John Watson. She cleared her throat and began to respond.

"My phone's on the charger. It was almost dead when I came in this morning."

"Didn't bother to check your phone, battery or otherwise?"

Molly Hooper shook her head and looked at the (handsome, very handsome) man she had been infatuated with for the past five years. "I mean, we haven't had any bodies come in lately. There should be a body or two this afternoon….judging by how long it has been. I mean… you don't go long in London without a death."

The consulting detective nodded and started to pace. Within the hour Molly would be alerted about a body needing an immediate autopsy and he needed to be there. She was right; you didn't go long without a death in London. Three bodies were found under a bridge, covered by garbage and one could possibly lead to the solution of the detective's newest case.

Sherlock then looked at Molly as she stared at him questioningly. He never allowed her to notice his discrete glances, though. Not even John could see his few glances to her as he paced.

"John, if you wish to go home, feel free. I just need to examine the body and then discuss the results with Lestrade. I will not need your assistance for the time being."

John sighed in relief. "Oh, that's lovely. I could go home and take a twelve hour nap. You're running me past my limit, Sherlock." The ex-army doctor nodded a simple goodbye to Molly and headed for the door. She smiled a little, to be polite. John didn't exactly catch her eye, especially when Sherlock was in the room. He almost seemed to fade into the background when he didn't speak.

An hour later and the two were cutting up the body of Henry Wells, a man who had missing for a week prior to the time his body was found. It was found with an unidentified woman about twenty seven years of age and a younger boy in his early twenties by the name of James Hasting.

"Haven't slept well Molly? Those bad dreams must really be upsetting you."

Molly looked up, astonished (not so much, but even after years it still surprised her) by Sherlock's deductions. He could tell when she had a date, what days she had cried in the bathroom before he showed up, what her plans were for the night, and he knew exactly how to make her melt like putty in his hands.

"I mean, the circles under your eyes aren't exactly hidden by the foundation you hastily applied this morning. Other than that, your face is completely without makeup. This means you woke late and had to quickly leave to get to work. Also, your hair is a bit more in disarray than it usually is, meaning you had time only to run your brush through your hair to make it presentable. This could also mean you had a rough night where you tossed and turned constantly, turning one way and the next and made it difficult to deal with in the early morning. Your clothes are a bit wrinkled and look as if you threw on whatever you had that looked decent to you, while women take forever to decide upon a proper outfit for the day. Also, it is obvious to me that you chewed a piece of gum rather than brushing your teeth. Also, someone would've placed their phone on the charger before they went to bed. Seeing you were restless you probably forgot and went to sleep without even thinking about the device."

He looked up at the small brunette with a deliberate look, as if accusing her of something.

She made another surprised face and nodded before looking down at the corpse so as not to see the piercing gray eyes that stared at her across the metal examination table. "Its fine, Sherlock. No need to…be concerned."

Sherlock continued to stare intently at her. She shook as she continued her work. Molly was quiet, as she usually was. That was why Sherlock always came to her. She never questioned and she was quiet while he was deep in his mind palace that could've been miles and miles away.

Eventually he did look away from her, making Molly relax.

It wasn't until late they were finished. Molly had worked long after her shift had ended, but didn't complain. She rarely ever did, unlike John. Even though the dark circles under Molly's eyes were becoming more and more visible after rubbing them tiredly. A few yawns came from her, but she was quiet other than that.

"Lestrade I know it's late but we need to discuss the rest of the case now," Sherlock demanded. He had been on the phone for ten minutes arguing with the Detective Inspector. "Come now, Lestrade, can't you see that I've figured it out? Well fine, I'll have John call you in the morning with the details."

Sherlock hung up. "Alright Molly, that'll be-"he turned to find Molly Hooper asleep in a chair, her legs pulled up to her chest in an attempt to make herself more comfortable. Sherlock knew it couldn't be good for Molly, knowing that she was sleep deprived and needed proper rest. Even after a few days he needed rest. Just because he was an insomniac on most days (who needed sleep anyways) didn't mean he didn't sleep at all (just once or twice a week if he didn't have a case).

The dark haired man contemplated what to do. It was then that Molly's face changed. Her expressionless face turned to a grimace. Sherlock didn't really sleep, let alone dream. She started shaking her head slowly, as if she was answering a question. She continued to shake her head and gooseflesh was raised on her skin.

She began muttering, and Sherlock had no idea what to do. He had never witnessed anyone consumed in a bad dream. His dreams were usually of numbers or of him solving impossible crimes. Some days it would be of him falling or being stuck in a burning building, but never horrifying to the point that he considered them 'nightmares.' As children he and Mycroft had different rooms and were separate from each other. Sometimes the brothers didn't sleep for days after they learned of their true intellect. The two weren't bothered with the dreams that seemed to disappear the next morning.

Molly was completely different, however.

She started squirming and muttering with a look as if she was having the most awful dream in the world.

Sherlock reluctantly moved forward and knelt down in front of her and shook her. After a little bit her eyes opened and she was awake. "Wh-what's going on?"

"Molly, you were having a bad dream," Sherlock said. She nodded groggily. "Do you want me to take you home?"

She sleepily shook her head. "No, I don't want to go home. I haven't slept well in days."

Sherlock couldn't just leave her to sleep on a chair in the morgue. But she needed to go home.

He sighed. "Molly, I'll take you home. I'll stay until morning if that makes you feel better. I usually don't sleep anyways."

It took a moment, but Molly nodded and groggily stood to her feet. In a matter of minutes the two were in a cab on the way to her flat. She laid her head on the consulting detective's shoulder and started to doze off.

"Oi, you're girlfriend okay back there?" the cabbie asked. "Looks like she hasn't slept in days."

Sherlock shook his head. "She not my- I just need to get her home is all. Then she can get some rest."

It wasn't long before Sherlock was almost dragging Molly up the stairs and into her flat. He had barged into it many times (when she wouldn't answer his texts when he needed extra body parts for his experiments especially), knowing the spare key was left in the pot beside her door. He didn't want to bother digging through her purse.

So as to speed her along, Sherlock opened the door and scooped Molly into his arms and carried her towards her bedroom. She nuzzled her cheek into his chest and sighed, "You're warm."

Just minutes later and Molly's shoes were one the floor, as was her lab coat and sweater. The tall dark haired man covered the girl with her comforter on the large bed and she latched onto the warmth that came with it. "Thank you," she whispered, her eyes still closed, and nodded off to sleep.

Sherlock Holmes sighed and exited the bedroom, scratching his head. After days of searching for missing people, digging through neglected evidence, and solving multiple cases, Sherlock lied down on the couch and shut his eyes and slipped into the darkness.

It was around one in the morning that Sherlock heard the new sound. He could hear sobbing and he was unsure of why. When he opened his eyes, he found himself in Molly's flat, almost forgetting what had happened just hours before. She was crying in the other room, the short brunette that always wore her hair in ponytails and braids and was always so very quiet. Even when Sherlock had said insensitive things to her (not seeming rude to him) she did not cry in front of him or even let it be known.

Groaning, the detective sat up and rubbed his eyes before starting to make his way to the pathologist's bedroom. When he came to the door he lightly knocked before entering. Just hearing her sobs made his cold heart cringe with sadness. "Molly, are you awake?"

She didn't answer him. It wasn't until he was knelt beside her bed until he could see that she was crying in her sleep. He shook her lightly, whispering her name several times.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" she asked, still too sleepy to be embarrassed.

"I told you I'd stay. You were crying in your sleep."

She bit her lip. "Thank you for waking me." Sherlock nodded and started to walk away, assuming she had dismissed him when she grabbed the tail of his long coat. He turned again to look at the young woman.

"Stay with me. I-I don't want to see that dream again…not again. Please, Sherlock?" Tears were still in her eyes as she looked at him, desperate for any sense of human interaction to get her mind away from the awful thoughts that haunted her. But she wasn't any good at relationships, boyfriend or friends in general. She only worked with dead people because they couldn't speak to her and make her more uncomfortable than a living, breathing person could (they didn't insult or judge like the living).

Sighing, Sherlock removed his coat and black shoes, throwing them on the ground before walking around to the other side of the bed and sliding between the covers. He lied on his back, looking at the ceiling with his grey eyes. He felt Molly shift beside him, snuggling back into a comfortable position. In a matter of minutes Sherlock heard her breath slow at an even pace, soft and deep.

Sherlock's eyes started to close again when Molly unconsciously moved beside him, her forehead lying on his side. She nuzzled his side and smiled, throwing an arm over the tall man. He cleared his throat (this is uncomfortable) and attempted to move but the pathologist clung to his shirt and wouldn't allow the detective to get away. With another sigh, Sherlock Holmes the misanthropic genius, turned on his side and slid an arm over the small pathologist. He watched Molly move closer to his chest and loosen her grip just slightly, seeming to be comforted by the warmth of the man beside her.

"If this works, I will be shocked," Sherlock said, closing his eyes one final time that night.

Molly Hooper awoke, feeling warm and fully rested, as if she had slept for a year. There was a strange warmth next to her that was strangely comforting. Her face was buried in the warm fabric, one arm over the strangely human-like lump of blankets. It was then she heard the breathing that was not her own.

Molly's eyes opened quickly, breathing in a scent that wasn't unfamiliar to her, but had never been so close.

The pathologist looked up to see the detective Sherlock Holmes. With her own deductions, she could only conclude that she had those awful dreams again the night before when he was staying in her flat for the night. He was the one who offered. After falling asleep in her bed she didn't remember much.

Molly didn't know what to do. Sherlock was in her bed. Her arm was around him. His arm was around her. And he was asleep. In her bed. With her in it.

Molly removed her arm from around the tall man and began to (attempt) to think, but her head was fuzzy with the man's scent of cigarette smoke (he apparently had snuck a few puffs in before John found out) and Earl Grey tea (his favorite type).

His breathing started to change and Molly quickly shut her eyes, attempting to breathe slow and deep (which was a chore its self, seeing as how the handsome Sherlock Holmes was in her bed beside her).

Sherlock moved, removing his arm from her side and taking her arm from around him. He slowly slid out of Molly's bed, away from the young women he had just spent the night with (even if nothing had really happened).

Sherlock attempted to find his coat and shoes in the dim light. He didn't dare turn on the light, not if it would wake Molly. He was already embarrassed enough as it was. If she woke up….

Molly sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Sherlock? What happened last night?"

"Well, you fell asleep in the morgue and I brought you home. At about three last night you were apparently having bad dreams and you asked me to stay with you." Sherlock smiled, hiding his true embarrassment from the pathologist.

When coffee was brewed and eggs were made the two forgot (most) of their embarrassment, choosing to sit in silence as they ignored Sherlock's constant messages (from blogger John Watson wondering where he was) and spent an hour watching crap telly.

Several times the bad dreams surfaced again. When they did, Sherlock could either tell or she would text him, feeling awful for dragging him away from his work. If he was busy, Sherlock would always turn up at any time he had just to make sure she was alright. If his adventures went long past dawn he would surprise her with lunch for the day, even if it only was take-out. But he was always there when he could be.

But sometimes it was her to stumble across his doorstep.

Just a few months after the first time he had stayed with her, Molly had gone drinking with a couple of friends. That day had been particularly rough for her, Sherlock saying a few insensitive things that made her run out of the morgue with him left to wonder if what he said wasn't socially accepted as anything less than an insult. The night before she hadn't been able to sleep and the stress of her awful day goaded her into joining her friends for the night.

Then, at a quarter to midnight, Molly stood in front of 221B Baker Street, banging on the door. "Sherlock Holmes let me in! I want to have a word with you right now!" a drunken Molly yelled, gaining her a few looks from passing people that continued on their way.

It was John who opened the door and took a whiff of the foul smell on Molly's breath. "Jesus Molly, are you alright? You smell like you've drunk a lot tonight." As John talked, Molly moved past him and up the stairs.

"Might as well go see your girlfriend, John. She's drunk too, you know. I need to have a word with Mr. Holmes." Molly never referred to Sherlock as Mr. Holmes (only when she was extremely angry); it was always Mycroft who was given that title.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, deep in thought (mind palace) as he contemplated the workings of his latest case. It was only when he was shoved to the ground that he even noticed Molly Hooper standing in front of him. He could smell the alcohol just dripping off of her.

"Molly, did you really have to-"

"Yes, I did you stupid bastard," Molly slurred at the man. "You think you're so…so…high and mighty because you are able to observe what others can't. And you're so ignorant, so fucking ignorant. You've played with me for years, Sherlock Holmes. Why did I ever allow you to push me around?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, refusing to answer the drunken doctor as she continued her rampage. He had never heard her curse or even raise her voice. She had been the cautious pathologist that he could read like an open book, page by (hopelessly romantic) page.

"You were always so handsome, and sometimes even nice. But you are a lying piece of shit, and that's all that ever came out of your mouth. You _knew_ how I felt about you, Sherlock Holmes. All of those compliments were to get body parts out of the morgue to experiment, or to see a body I shouldn't have shown, no matter the results. I anxiously waited for the bittersweet moments you would talk to me, whether insulting or complimentary because I apparently need to be hurt to feel remotely close to you." (Masochistic).

Sherlock had stood during her alcohol induced rant, watching her through emotionless grey eyes. "You're drunk, Molly, and not in a good state of mind to berate me. You need to sleep."

"I will sleep when I get home. Good night, Sherlock." But she didn't make it to the door, tripping over a pile of books ungracefully and falling to her knees. The tears began to flow silently down her cheeks, salty and unending.

Sherlock knelt beside her as she silently sobbed into her hands. "I'm such a coward," she muttered. "I have to be drunk to even stand up for myself and I-I wind up tr-tripping and making an ass of myself. What makes me think I can even get home in this state, not even able to make it out the door?"

The detective nudged her and sighed. He started to scoop the woman into his arms, her now clinging to him and crying into his shirt. Eventually they reached his dark room, attempting to lay the girl on his bed so as to allow her to sleep. When he let go she was still clinging to him.

"Please don't leave me," he barely heard. "I hate it. I don't want to be alone. I'm always alone."

Sherlock promised that he would stay, beginning to remove Molly's awful shoes from her feet. Three inch heels, not particularly new but barely worn until this evening. Sherlock scoffed at the idea of even wearing such things, not seeing the point in making someone a few inches taller for as long as they wore the heels (they looked as if they hurt like hell).

Sherlock climbed into the opposite side of the bed, pulling the blanket up over the two. Molly immediately rolled over and fisted the thirty-six year olds shirt and pushed her face into his chest, continuing to soak the fabric with her salty tears.

Her face remained there until she had stopped crying and she was left wiping her sticky eyes of tears. That's when she had spoken, softer but still cracking.

"Before I regain rational thought, may I try something, Sherlock?" She looked at him expectantly, biting her lip as she wished and prayed for his answer.

He nodded. "Close your eyes, Sherlock, before I lose my nerve."

Her lips pressed to his when he obeyed her. They moved against his and tasted sweet (of cherry chap stick, honey, and sweets) while Sherlock's were just like him; bittersweet (cigarettes, coffee, and his favorite tea).

They didn't know how long they stayed like that, both lost in the intensity. Eventually the two broke apart, both hearts beating rapidly from the surprising contact. Molly then relaxed and fell asleep next to the confused Sherlock.

He spent a good amount of time just running his fingers over his lips, contemplating the exchange the two had shared in his mind palace. The pathologist could've sworn that she knew he would never feel anything for her, no matter how hard she tried or how long she waited.

In Sherlock's mind palace he had an enormous amount of data stored. Rooms upon rooms kept information of elements, toxins, chemicals, studies, experiments, and a decent photograph of every useful thing he could store deep inside his mind. In other rooms were of his friends. John's was full of information about himself and what he had taught Sherlock (more socially than anything). Mrs. Hudson had quite a bit of data, but some had been forgotten long ago. Lestrade was all ways to make him tick or even understand (or undermine) the detective inspector (though most of it consisted of what he would notice in what amount of time when he was pick pocketed by Sherlock).

Molly had a large room of her own with information that exceeded and spilled out of the room almost when he opened that door. Even if this was all in his head (it was) he could see every bit of information he had accumulated over the few years they had known each other. He knew of her infatuation with him, her countless failed trials at other relationships, every compliment they had given each other and every insult (intended or not). And then, there was that small box of locked away bits he had kept at bay for so long.

Inside contained his heart, icy and messily sewn together, but still sitting in the part of his mind palace where Molly resided. It couldn't leave, so he locked it away to never allow it to take over. Molly never knew of his attraction towards her.

Sherlock shook his head, refusing to open the box (can of worms) that would lead to anything other than pain. He had watched his mother fall into depression because of her emotions, and he would not do the same.

John had left for a date with his new girlfriend Mary (he seemed very serious about her, more than the past others) and had let the flat to Sherlock. Said man was standing in front of the dark window, playing his violin as he was deep in thought. He didn't even notice his favorite pathologist enter his flat, her spare key being shoved back into her pocket.

"That was lovely," she said when he finished, surprising him.

"What are you doing here, Molly?"

"John sent me. Apparently you do not take kindly to his new girlfriend and he wanted me to make sure you didn't burn the building down or take it apart piece by piece." She smiled. Over the months she had grown a bit more comfortable around the alluring man who remained so mysterious. She knew she couldn't have him, so she made due with the interactions they shared. "I've always loved the violin."

Neither of the two knew how well that night would go. Molly had cooked pasta before she came, feeding Sherlock for the week as he did not have a case. They had turned on the radio (to a less irritating station as Sherlock put it) and had mocked the irritating officers (mostly Anderson) to the point of hilarity. Sherlock had also grown comfortable in her company, not like John and him who watched crap television (Sherlock yelling at the TV how stupid they all were) while John blogged their latest adventure.

Perhaps it had been the few drinks they had consumed. Neither was drunk, just at the edge of tipsy bordering on drunk. Molly was giggling and Sherlock relaxed like he hadn't been in weeks.

"Dance with me, Sherlock," Molly said, getting to her feet as a slower song came over the radio.

"I don't dance."

"You do tonight."

Sherlock was dragged to his feet. He awkwardly allowed himself to dance with Molly, though a bit stiff. Molly took his right hand and placed it on her waist, her left hand on his shoulder, and took his left hand. The two danced. It wasn't like a high school dance where the girls had their hands behind their date's neck and his on the girl's waist (usually more her ass depending on the girl) where they just moved in slow circles and all that was between them were the cloths they wore. Both Sherlock and Molly had been taught (and preferred) the simple ballroom dance that didn't indulge in the idea of fully clothed sex (as Sherlock would put it, except sex would be replaced with intercourse).

Sherlock looked at the smiling face of Molly Hooper while they danced. Sherlock was reminded of every day he had seen her since they had first met.

_"You aren't supposed to be here."_

_ "You're new."_

_ "Yes, well, this is my first day," a younger Molly Hooper said to the Sherlock Holmes of about seven years before._

_ He nodded. "Indeed." He hadn't deduced out loud, but had acquired information that was so obvious but would be overlooked by others._

_ Molly was entranced by how alluring and mysterious he seemed. He wasn't charming but he wasn't awkward either. He had a confidence that could be irritating to some but gravity to others. Molly Hooper felt the latter._

_ "I'm Molly Hooper."_

_ He nodded before saying, "By any chance did a body come in with the name Trevor Jacobi?"_

_ She nodded and led him towards the body she was about to start on. He examined it and asked her a few simple questions, making more deductions about the girl who stuttered by the name of Molly. He could use her well if he played his cards right._

_When he was leaving he turned to her and gave her a smile and said, "The name's Sherlock Holmes." And he left, only to return many times after._

Molly remembered it too, sighing inwardly and hoping that Sherlock hadn't caught that. But she knew she had nothing to lose if she said or did something. He would still go to the morgue. He would still be same old Sherlock if anything happened (emotionless and socially incompetent). Perhaps she should say something to the consulting detective she had known for so long.

"Sherlock, how do you….feel about me?"

He appeared puzzled. "Feel?" He looked as if he was having trouble even comprehending the word. "What do you mean by that, Molly?"

She took a deep breath, cursing her tipsy mind for even suggesting this awful torture. He was so innocent in his own ways that made him so irritating ("I always hear punch me in the face when you're talking, but it's usually sub-text," John had said to him once).

"As in romantically?"

She nodded, staring down at their now motionless feet. He wouldn't let go of her hand, though, making her even more uncomfortable.

"I am….unsure, Molly. I have had nothing but confusion about you since the day we met."

She looked up at him, almost hopeful, but less than so. She knew that he was always confused about emotions, no matter the type, but knew very well how to play with others' with ease.

"You've known how long I've…." Molly couldn't finish the sentence, and Sherlock understood. He wouldn't have wanted to be in her position, almost declaring their infatuation for another.

Sherlock's right hand lifted from Molly's waist and up to her chin, lifting it so her face was visible for him to see. She refused to look at him, trying to bring her head down but unable to. He held her in place, running his thumb over her soft skin.

"Sherlock….?"

He then leaned in and kissed her, closing his eyes just before his lips made contact with hers.

His lips moved against hers and it took a few seconds before she too melted into the gentle kiss he had initiated.

Molly was surprised by the sudden contact, electricity shooting through her veins from her head to her toes. He had kissed her. She vaguely remember kissing him while drunk, an awful idea set in her head by Mary and other friends that day. He had let her cry so many times in the past year, almost comforting her even with his lack of social skills. He had taken care of her and had watched over her. Some would've called it love. Molly would like to believe that, but she knew it wasn't true.

Sherlock eventually removed his lips from hers. Hers were still so soft, his chapped and only a small amount of alcohol between the two this time.

"Sherlock, what was that?" she asked, her face red.

"Perhaps that was a confession that I couldn't put into words."

Almost stunned by the comment, Molly looked into his grey eyes with disbelief. "Is this real? This isn't an experiment, is it?"

"Only on myself."

Molly sat on the couch in nothing but Sherlock's purple shirt and a pair of knickers she had recently bought. Her hair was a mess and her bleary eyed as she drank the newly brewed coffee. Sherlock had yet to get up that day, still exhausted from the night before.

Sherlock appeared from his room (wrapped in a sheet rather than finding underwear instead). He looked up at the woman on the couch, his eyebrows rising. "Is that my purple shirt?"

She smirked. "Maybe." Molly stood. "Black, two sugars, right?"

Sherlock muttered what sounded like a yes and sat on the couch. He took the mug from Molly's hands when she returned, drinking the bittersweet (just like him) caffeinated liquid. "Thank you, Molly."

She sat and leaned her back against him, curling her legs beside her on the couch. She felt Sherlock move and set his mug down on the coffee table. "Now, what should I do with you?" the deep voice of Sherlock Holmes asked.

"I'm sure you can figure it out," Molly said, her eyes closed. It only took a split second before she even comprehended Sherlock spinning her and pinning her to the couch, the sheet starting to fall.

Molly giggled. "Sherlock let me go." She squirmed underneath him, unaware of how she was truly affecting him.

"Now why would I do that Molly?" He brought his lips down onto hers, initiating a passionate kiss between the two. While his pathologist was preoccupied, Sherlock began to undo the buttons on his purple shirt (she looks so sexy in my purple shirt).

Between kisses Molly asked, "What about John?"

"Out on vacation with Mary," Sherlock informed. "He'll be gone for days."

Molly moaned as he moved down her jaw and started nipping and sucking at her collarbone, leaving teeth marks all over her neck. "Oh Sherlock," she kept breathing (that feels so good, so good).

He pulled Molly into a sitting position, sliding the unbuttoned purple shirt off of her shoulders. Sherlock then tugged at her knickers. Eventually, with a little cooperation with Molly, they came off, leaving her completely naked, the sheet slowly sliding off of Sherlock's body. The sheet was soon on the floor as well.

Later, Molly would whisper that she loved him, and Sherlock would think only of her and how amazing she was.

After a year of being together, the two had come to realizations. Sherlock was only human, even if his powers of deduction made him superhuman sometimes and he needed to be reminded sometimes (most of the time). Molly was not the girl who would topple London or bring the world to their knees; she had Sherlock. And wasn't that all they needed anyways?


End file.
